Only Ever Alone (Remake)
by Jldp321
Summary: When the servants of the past Holy Grail War are free, they want nothing more than to finally live normal lives, despite Saber's opinions. Years later, Saber and Lancer meet again, surmounting past obstacles and guilt, and learning the meaning of freedom together—little do they know of something far more sinister occurring, threatening the world they have come to love.
1. Chapter 1

You don't have to ask.

The answer is yes.

Of course.

How could she not?

She would be cruel not to feel that way.

Any honor he once had disappeared in those fleeting seconds.

 _Hatred_

Even here, in such a realm, her soul still tied to the holy grail—one she believed she had destroyed—she laments about what happened.

Her _friend._

The only person who she truly had fun with, who reminded her of both the honor and excitement of battle; of challenge. The past lancer was a formidable opponent, unmatched by most. His fair gaze, beauty mark bewitched, slight smirk to his lips held such boyish happiness. Despite how sorrowful and angry he looked in his final moments.

Those are things she will never forget. Those are things she wills herself to remember, to hold against herself.

"I'm...sorry.." she whispers, alone in this dark realm, with other warriors sitting just as alone, somewhere else. Perhaps just as miserable. Awaiting a single moment of time so that they could be revived. And for what?

For glory? Greed? Selfish hopes they could not achieve when they had been alive? If they are dead, perhaps it is for a reason. If they are dead, why waste such time on such a thing as the Holy Grail War. What terrible tragedies it has dragged along with it.

She lost a friend, in such a dishonorable way that she can only rightfully blame herself for.

Clutching her saber, she nibbles on the inside of her cheek.

 _Stupid. Again. You made a foolish decision and more suffered because of you!_

If she could do it all again, she would apologize to Lancer. She would beg for forgiveness and take responsibility for the actions of her past master. One she despises, one without emotion. Selfish.

In her head, sitting in this realm, waiting to be summoned, she has thought about many things. After a decade of waiting, her mind probes all her faults, picks at all her past decisions with a critical eye.

 _I could have done something. Said anything to comfort him in those last few seconds. Yet I—stepped away from him._

Lancer had preached the honor of battle with such passion, it was inevitable that she would suddenly feel that same passion reinforced within her. Then how quickly it diminished when he turned his dark and angry gaze towards her, blood seeping from his lips and eyes; sharp and glowing unnaturally.

"How useless it all is. How useless my dreams are...I wish—" she breaths out, a sudden weakness overcoming her, "I wish I had never—"

The words do not escape her. She pauses in her lonesome muttering and jumps to her feet. Her grip around the hilt of her saber tightens immediately. The ground rumbles beneath her feet, like thunder from above striking the floor.

Across the "sky", a splinter of lines seeps through the foggy mist. The rumbling turns into a roar. It's as if the world is splintering before her and she reaches out towards the sudden light seeping through the cracks. If she could ever wish for one thing, with all her heart, it would be to end this slavery she cast upon herself and seek redemption.

She would protect what needed to be protected if given another chance. If given another chance—

The world around her tilts and she is falling into the light. Her saber glides with her and she reaches out desperately, fingers curling around the hilt, dragging it against her chest in a feeble attempt.

The light is immense as she falls into it and she wonders for a moment if she has truly, fully died at this moment. It is warm, fluffy. Her limbs turn numb and she is simply floating in this bubble of warm, brilliant light. She can see, behind her eyelids, flashes of memory. Painful ones, her past. And now, added to it, are the memories of the last Holy Grail War. Fighting Lancer, her fierce and competitive desire to win. Her meeting with Rider and Gilgamesh, their mocking stares as she spoke of a dream that seemed misplaced and idiotic. Her horror as Caster appeared as a monster and then her gratitude, her slight happiness when Lancer snapped his lance for her. The look in his eyes, one of contentment. His trust in her.

Then all of it disappearing in that last moments of his life. Blood pouring from his wound, his body slumped over in pain, red lance pierced straight through his back. It makes her heart wrench painfully.

Destroying the grail, her mouth open in a shrill scream, horrified eyes pleading Kiritsugu to spare the very instrument she lost her friend over, she gave her life to. The sting of that grail breaking and her heart lurching sends flames of rage through her.

Then she opens her eyes, fluttering her lashes against the brightness and searching for any discernible shapes. This is not heaven and she is not dying. She is falling. The ground is rushing towards her, a splotch of green. She hits the ground with a harsh thud. Sharp pains race up her ribs, making her bones ache deep into the muscle. Still clutching her saber against her chest, she groans.

The grass against her skin is soft however, ticklish almost. A soft breeze. It is all so peaceful.

Has she been summoned?

But it never felt like that before. It never felt so...freeing.

Blinking, Saber rises to her feet, still adorned in her armor and dress. Across a wide expanse of green, she sees the movement of other bodies. She claps a hand over her sword and drags her feet backwards, forming distance between the familiar faces.

Never have all the same warriors ever been summoned _together_ before. Rider, Berserker (her heart lurches in pain) and Assassin have moved to their feet. The same alarm flashes across their gazes, all except Rider, who flashes his usual grin.

His laughter is raucous, interrupting the fear and suspicion brewing between the following servants.

"What is the meaning of this?" Saber lifts her sword, the scabbard slipping to the ground. Assuming her stance, the other servants (minus Rider) follow.

Rider flaps his hands out, blocking Assassin and Berserker from moving.

Something isn't right. This does not feel like a war nor does she feel obligated to fight. What is even more strange is Berserker. Someone she had known and hurt in the past, a man whose face she will never forget—is strangely calm. He has not charged her, or roared out in fury, nor done anything rash and erratic. Despite being here for a few seconds only, the berserker in the past would have most likely attacked anything a foot away from him in those same mere seconds. So why does he not attack now? Why does he seem stoic and calm?

Still foolishly grinning, Rider takes a thunderous step forward, "Hello King Of Knights! Will you still refuse joining my army?"

Grimacing, saber tightens her grip around her saber, slipping her teeth over her bottom lip, "You offend me greatly Rider. As usual."

His smile does not fade, in fact, it grows wider.

For a moment, she wonders if he's going to ask again, and she firmly stands her ground, flashing him a sharp glare. But then his bright and gleeful eyes shiver, to the spot just above her shoulder.

"We are not the only ones, it seems! More have joined!"

Whirling around, Saber minds that lurking behind still lies danger, three servants at her back and two more trudging towards her front.

Her stomach knots and her eyes widen as she spots the familiar green material, tight against toned muscle and large legs, two lances swinging precariously around nimble fingers.

She nearly drops her saber. She doesn't but her grip loosens considerably and she can't help but keep her eyes from flicking up to his face. In fear that his eyes may be filled with the similar rage he died with.

Beside him, someone who is none to happy to be standing beside Lancer, is a man with golden hair. Unlike the rest of the servants however, he wears civilian clothes and in his hand, he holds a square device. As most servants are inclined to do, she immediately is informed of the world around her. Of the technological advances and much about the capabilities of the phone in Archer's hand.

While the rest of the servants wear the clothes they were summoned in and most died in, Archer moved with an air of comfort and elegance.

Which means he's been living for a long while. Regardless of the fact that he should have been dead.

His gaze captures Saber's startled one and his lips turn up into a slight smirk. She can already sense his arrogant thoughts burning into her skin.

She's caught off guard by Rider's large hand slamming down on to her shoulder. Saber hisses and slips out from under his grasp, putting distance between each servant. She is most untrustworthy of Assassin, Beserker and Archer but she can imagine that if Lancer's anger has lingered, then he will feel inclined to attack her as well.

Rider, she isn't so sure he will openly attack. Yet.

"I thought I sensed a change in the air." Archer's smirk doesn't fade, in fact, it grows wider. He slips the phone into his back pocket and then splays his fingers outward, a portal of gold forming above his open palm. In his hand, a pristine wine glass falls, filled with pure red wine, smooth like velvet.

He presses the glass to his lips, far too nonchalant and knowing much more than she imagines he lets on.

He must. Archer has always been conniving.

"This is strange," the voice is polite but masked with slight annoyance, a hint of poison between the words of a deep, calm tone, "What is more offsetting is that we are all here...not one new servant."

Saber glances up at him, cautiously, her gaze shielded. He isn't looking at her, he's watching Archer with his own guarded and shaded look but seeing his expression, his fair face—she is reminded immensely of his smile. Not because of his handsome face, she knew he was handsome, it never bothered her truly, but because she is reminded of the fact that his smile had once held respect. A sweetness, an excitement that ignites a fire of competition within her.

He is—was, a true friend.

She notices the muscles in his neck flex and she quickly removes her gaze, locking it harshly on Archer's eyes, meeting his calming smirk with a harsh grimace of her own.

Rider glances over his shoulder, "It goes unsaid that this is all new. And this can't have something to do with the war. We have no masters. We must be—the only answer could be that we are free."

This time, she allows the saber to slip from her fingers. It lands stabbed into the ground, sinking into soft dirt and swaying grass, "Impossible."

Archer swirls his wine, "Is it? I have been living amongst humans for a long while. All with my abilities intact."

Saber growls beneath her breath, " _That_ is something we should discuss as well. How in the world have you survived since the last holy grail war? And why did you not return as we did?"

Archer's smile persists. Frustratingly, she feels the urge to take up her sword once more and slice him in two, but she reins in her anger when Lancer interjects, "There isn't a need to fight. Rider is right. Something is different. I don't feel the power of the grail or the pressure of war. Or the chains of a master. What other answer is there except that we are free?"

This time, without thought, she swivels her head towards Lancer, forgetting that she had been ignoring his gaze, "Why now? How could this—" she swallows and quickly turns to Rider—realizing how strong Lancer's eyes had been, a honey swirled yellow nearly, locked on her own eyes—tongue twisting over her words, coming out in a strangled gulp, she manages to finish, "Be possible?"

Rubbing his jaw, Rider frowns, although the expression truly doesn't fit his often bubbly face. Neither of them have answers and before they can come up with a doubtful explanation, rocking and thunderous steps boom from behind them. She grabs her saber but stills in shock as Berserker stomps over towards them. He groans and then murmurs, as if the sound is coming out like a low growl from his throat, "Free...dumb..."

Tapping his chest, he forced words out again, slowly, more enunciated and focused, "I. Feeeel. It."

Saber's chest constricts. Is it only she that refuses to go about this situation based solely off of feeling? Why does it feel so unnecessarily wrong? Or as if this will be short lived?

Archer's glass sits empty in his hand, "What does it matter? If you have no masters, why stay and fight. I have been here for many years already and there has been no sign of any more mages or a holy grail."

Lancer is watching her. She can feel the heat of his gaze but it is impossible to discern if it is blank or furious, "We could try. To live a normal life. Be on our ways. Would it be so bad to believe in a miracle like this?"

Shaking her head, Saber's heart pounds, "It isn't right? Why would any of us deserve a miracle like this?"

"Those are answers we may never know," Rider interrupts before Lancer can reply. He stands with his mouth open and eyebrows furrowed, whatever argument they nearly faced is stopped quickly. Both of them find their sense of calm.

Rider continues, "I refuse to fight, especially when no award exists nor a master. Perhaps I will find my previous master, see how he has grown?"

 _Previous master..._

She hardly wants to see that man again. Kiritsugu. Evil. Emotionless. Dishonorable. The man who hurt Lancer, a friend with dignity that her master had taken.

"That isn't something we should do? We should stay here, find a way back into the realm."

Archer laughs gleefully, "You want to go _back_?!" He laughs so hard that he must wipe comically at his eyes.

Lancer stabs his weapons into the ground, standing straight, chin up.

"There is no way I am going back to a life as a servant and prisoner. I want an honorable life."

The words sting her and Lancer flashes her a sharp gaze, one filled with mistrust, in her direction.

She understands everything he thinks about her. He sees a past servant who stepped away and allowed her master to force a man to suicide.

She regrets ever stepping back from him, ever meeting a man that she regarded as her friend. And who she assumes now hates her.

Rider glances at Berserker, "It seems we all want the same thing," turning his gaze to Saber, his eyebrows raise, "King of Knights?"

Saber grips her saber, squeezing the holt into her palm. She kneads it deeper into the ground, "How can you all feel so settled? This is all suspicious, we have no answers as to why this has occurred. And him—"

She cocks her head towards Archer, who watches her with a bemused smirk. Berserker huffs, a slight hint of annoyance at the appearance of Gilgamesh, but does not attack.

Glancing past Berserker, Saber grits her teeth, "Assassin! He can't leave. He is hardly even one person. You would want to send a servant like that into the world and—"

She pauses. Swiveling around, she eyes the clearing, a vast expanse of green grass flowing in the breeze.

"Where is Caster?"

Panic seized her but she attempts to still her pounding heart, still tilting her head to search for the familiar, grotesque expression of that terrible servant.

This time, there is a hush among the group. Archer scoffs, "Perhaps that animal wasn't freed. We are all free of terrible crimes...or perhaps he has been living among people. As I have."

"Impossible. He's far too unstable to live normally. He'd have killed again."

Archer shrugs, "A dog of inferior intellect has no purpose on this Earth. Some of _you_ shouldn't even be here," his eyes slide towards Saber, "Except my wife, she is the only one with a place here."

A cough, "I hardly believe any of us are free of crimes or truly belonging in this world. We died once in history..." Lancer must be watching her because Saber can sense the irritation in his tone.

She resists the urge to bite back, rather, knowing she should understand why he is so angry. She soaks it in, allows it to wash over her. It seems to only irritate him more because his eyebrows furrow and his lips turn down into a deep frown. She says, calmly, "We must find him."

"We?" Archer snickers, his wine glass disappearing through a small golden portal, "You are so adorable when you wish for the impossible, aren't you?"

Saber growls under her breath, turning towards Rider, "Surely you agree with me. Caster is a danger to this world. It is our responsibility to find him!"

Rider shrugs, "And do what, little girl? Murder him? We have no masters, we are liable to this world's laws."

"It—" she bites her cheek, cheeks flaring with slight color, "We must do this. We owe it

to these people to take responsibility. We are servants and if Caster is out hurting others, it is our job to stop another servant. Stop him from killing innocent people! Please, fellow servants, help me stop him."

"I refuse." Rider stands his ground before Saber, unimpressed and not very moved by her passionate outburst. He scratches the back of his neck, "I am sure your worries are misplaced. You killed caster yourself which means that if he is not here—"

"Then he has not been freed." Lancer grabs his lances, turning his head away from her, "You are spouting nonsense. Enough already."

He would have sided with her before. Or at least not been so cold. She huffs, "We can't know that for sure."

"It's the only logical outcome," Assassin appears beside her. She flinches away.

Assassin's wispy form shimmers, shadowy tendrils floating from his back, "We only want to live normally. Leave it be."

Berserker steps back, "Good. Bye."

She whirls around, watching the large figure slowly lope off, his shadowy armor nearly shimmering in the sunlight. Assassin glances around the group, "I hope to never see any of you again."

She can't leave this be. A servant like assassin isn't capable of living in normal society. His abilities only serve in darker parts of the world, in shadowy business and jobs. Murder. Berserker as well. Where will he go? How will he survive, unable to speak, hardly intelligent and prone to anger?

Archer hums with amusement, "This was all interesting but now it bores me. Please visit me again my lovely wife," he flips a white card towards her and Saber swipes it out the air. Glancing down, it reads his name in fancy lettering and then an address she cannot discern. When she looks up again, he has disappeared in a golden shimmer of lights.

Now only Rider and Lancer remain and both of them don't seem inclined to stay.

Rider reaches for her and Saber slaps his hand away, giving him a fiery look, " _Don't_ touch me."

He rolls his eyes, "Now is not the time to fight. Perhaps it is all you know little girl, and I wonder how well you will do in this world. But you cannot run around in armor for much longer, welding a sword. Our powers will stay hidden, I suggest you learn to live in this world rather than the past. Good luck."

And in the air, grey clouds rolling through, and blue lightning striking, a chariot comes down. He waves happily, his grin wide, "Goodbye fellow servants, if you ever need me, I will be with my old master!"

He is gone, bellowing laughter lost to the sudden harsh wind. She covers her eyes as debris and dust flashes into her face, heart thudding in her chest. She turns to Lancer,

"Wait—I—"

He turns his head and mutters something but she cannot discern what it is. His figure disappears into the air and he is gone. She stands alone, sword still stabbed into the ground, dress flying in a strong breeze.

How is she to survive? When all her worries seem misplaced, when she is stuck in a past life, refusing to accept a miracle she feels she does not deserve.

She falls to the ground, suddenly losing her strength. She keeps her hand locked around the hilt of her saber, head tucked against her chest.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2—Destined

 _ **January 3rd**_

 _ **Four years later**_

 _ **[Lancer]**_

He easily admits that this world suits him. The women aren't inclined to fall for him, at least, not all of them. And most are fiery and passionate, most simply ache to fulfill their goals rather than marry off into a rich family. The women are easily respected on his part but he would be lying if he did not readily admit how many he's already slept with. Not to brag, but perhaps to be a bit boastful. Here, it is hardly shameful to sleep with a man and never speak with him again, if the women so chooses. During his time period, there were many women he could do so with but most of the high class ones would never entertain the idea.

His relationships with the women of this world are hardly the reason for his success however. It is more so his ambition and of course, because this world does like a fair face—his appearance does help. In some ways.

So it is only natural that he delves into the world of business and modeling. It is only natural he put on airs for what he can't help but flirtatiously show off. He isn't famous, hardly, nor does he aim to be, but he likes living in a nice apartment—he enjoys his newfound freedom, regardless if the chains of money and society are his new masters. _So be it_ , he decides, it is better than a mage handling his affairs and personal morals.

Four years have passed since his release into the world and he's sensed no other servants. Nor observed or noticed any suspicious movement. No random deaths, at least, nothing caused by the hands of a servant. No one else is as close to stardom as he (or as he can be) so it would be strange to suddenly see familiar faces appear. Besides, he left Tokyo three years ago, settling in America, in New York. He's acquired a bit of money but he assumes that only because his beauty mark influences most of his modeling jobs. It isn't something he's proud of but at least he hasn't gone hungry, or failed miserably. At least, he has a leg in on running a business and a few investments in a coffee shop he hopes will grow bigger soon.

He keeps in practice however. Twisting and swinging his lances with feline quickness whenever he can. He hardly wants to forget the movement or excitement of battle, he doesn't want to be a weak servant, capabilities lost over time. So he trains as much as he can, making sure his abilities are constantly improved upon. Often, he looks back to one of his last battles.

The one with _her._

A name he refuses to say out loud. Her gaze in his last moments had been one of confusion and disturbance. She had stepped away from him, eyebrows furrowed, eyes widened with, what seemed like, startled fear.

As his red lance glimmered in the moonlight and his rage escaped him. Death without honor. That is what he suffered. Because of her.

No.

Not because of her, he knows that. He tells himself that, in hopes he will believe it and understand.

As he sat alone, in his own personal realm, a continuous loop of his sorrows and past deaths, he could not help but think of her. Wonder if she had known that her master had planned to kill him dishonorably. If she had, would she have stopped it?

Then again, it a servants responsibility to follow their master's orders, so perhaps his worries are misplaced. She is loyal. Even when she disagrees, she is loyal without a fault.

Seeing her again, four years ago, still as passionate and selfless as before, was a shock. He was still angry then, he still hated her for everything. It was hard not to glare, it was hard to bark angrily at every word she spoke. Now...he's simply confused.

Their fights, he will always think back on, however. Mirroring his movements, living out the exact motion of his body deflecting her blade, of his lance piercing forward.

She had been a magnificent partner, fighting him as if a dance; a deadly one but exciting nonetheless.

Sighing to himself, he casually walks down the street, hands shoved into his jacket pockets, hiding his lips beneath the fabric. He doesn't feel as cold as humans do but January winters are brutal and punishing; even he can't withstand such temperatures. Even if he could, it would be insane to walk outside amongst normal civilians without a jacket. He would look too strange and draw far too much suspicion.

Glancing upward at a string of glimmering billboards and screens, he pauses to grimace at the familiar face. He lied about not seeing too many familiar faces (and being the only once close to stardom). He sees Archer's face too many times. It seems he's conquered the business world, as well as acting, modeling and more. His arrogance is adored by his fans and Lancer can't help but wonder why this world loves such a selfish man.

Seeing Archer's smirk sliding across a glowing screen hardly makes Lancer's mornings. Especially when he knows the bastard is enjoying every moment of his fame.

Perhaps he's become even more big headed than he had been before. That wouldn't be much of a surprise however.

Taking a swift turn, Lancer follows a similar morning route, on way to his favorite (and locally known) coffee shop. He prefers smaller places, dimly lit and intimate rather than busy chain restaurants, where the employees hardly seem happy to be there.

Here, as he walks in, he's greeted with friendly smiles and familiar faces, innocent people who see past his charmed mark. Although they hardly know he's been bestowed with such a curse.

"Diarmuid," this world enjoys strange names and folklore it seems, because his name has become fairly popular amongst his few friends—if he could call them that, "Good morning."

It is a fair faced man with facial hair aligned neatly around his lips and chin, connecting into his hair line. Wrinkles around his lips and eyes speak volumes of his personality and his blue eyes are often transparently emotional. Lancer can't help but be drawn to the man's honesty, finding such a quality to be scarce amongst the humans he's known.

"Sorry to come so early today," Lancer offers a smile, "But I expected you'd be here."

"Well—" a voice calls from the back, and scooting her head back, ginger hair pulled into a high pony tail is petite woman, arms around two stacked boxes, "He can't help it. Refuses to sleep and just walks around the store all night!"

Her voice is layered with a thick accent, freckles dotting her cheeks as her innocent greenish-blue eyes flash with annoyance at her husband, "One day, I swear he'll drop dead."

He admires that despite their short lifespans, their lives are filled with bits of happiness. A sense of togetherness he can't help but truly wish for himself. They are humble, often one bickering mind, but strongly bonded.

"Relax Amelie," looking back to Lancer, he scoffs, "You'd think she has PhD or something but she didn't even finish high school."

Neither did Lancer. He never even attended. He's fortunate to be blessed with the knowledge of this world before being released, or else it would have been impossible to ever find a job.

"Might as well," Amelie hisses and drops the boxes on the counter. The shop is empty save for a few random faces, huddled into darker corners or sleeping with large textbooks open beneath them, "You agree with me right Diarmuid? Justin should take care of his health, right?"

He offers a polite smile, "Both of you should,"

Justin clicks his tongue, punching in Lancer's usual order and then swirling around, choosing to ignore his wife rather than instigate. But she continues, tongue like a fiery whip, speaking fast and her heavy accent becoming thicker, louder, "He can't sleep, he eats like a pig and then goes out drinkin' with his buddies, leaving me to clean the shop all alone."

Again, silence from Justin, who merely continues to brew Lancer's coffee. He watches, bemused as Amelie opens the stacked boxes, unloading small porcelain cups and plates. He wonders now if she's speaking to herself rather than her husband.

"And I love him, I do, but he's a stupid oaf."

"Alright, alright. Nough' already. He gets it."

"I haven't even started yet!" Amelie frowns and snatches the coffee cup from Justin's hand, swiveling around to hand it off to Lancer, who leaves the appropriate amount of cash on the counter. Sometimes he hardly speaks but he likes to watch their liveliness, often amused by how similar the two are. Often bickering about something and the next, speaking in serious hushed tones like inseparable partners.

The door behind him rings, two little bells bouncing together. He doesn't turn, but a soft scent wafts towards his nose. Like cinnamon or melting sugar. He inhales gently and then presses the cup in his hands to his lips.

Regardless of Amelie's booming voice, it is a peaceful morning. One he enjoys rather than constant battle and war, although he sometimes misses that excitement, the seriousness of a fight between a worthy opponent.

Brushing past him, a smaller figure steps up to the counter. She walks with a stiffness, as if still unaccustomed to the world, or rather, to people. Her fingers drum against the counter and she turns her emerald gaze towards Amelie with a seriousness he's all too familiar with. Stiffening, Lancer observes her, dumbfounded that he hadn't sense her presence earlier, that she's here at all.

"Oh, you came back." Justin holds a white mug in his hand, wiping it clean with a pale blue rag.

She nods, rigid, "I thought it would be rude not to pay back the window and table. And dishes. I am sorry to have caused such a racket. Please accept this as my formal apology."

Too polite. She's still polite and full of humble gratitude. Passing an envelope across the counter, Justin pauses and peers down at it. Then he shakes his head, "You didn't have to. You were just trying to help a poor woman and you fought off that big ogre like it was nothing."

She doesn't smile, "She needed help. But I also ruined parts of your shop. I insist you accept the money."

Justin gently places the mug down, "Well I—"

He flinches as Amelie snacks the back of his neck with an apron twisted around her fist. She eyes the blonde servant before her, scowling, "Stupid oaf, why wouldn't you take the money?! She ransacked our shop!"

She bows her head low, "I apologize. I was only trying to be of use. I hope the money can pay for all expenses."

Justin rubs his head and Lancer is still frozen in place. He hadn't expected to ever see her again, or get the change too. He always told himself that if he saw her, he would immediately apologize for his misplaced anger. Or that he would allow her to explain what happened but now...

"Saber."

Justin glances up, noticing Lancer's most likely torn expression, confused...hurt.

The blonde woman turns, eyebrows furrowed, lips pulled into a taut line. Even then, he notices her simple beauty, a muscle in her jaw tightening as she meets his gaze. Startled, Saber steps back and bumps against the counter, "Lancer?"

They stare at each other, searching each other's gazes. Silently, he wonders what she might be thinking, as they watch each other, mirrored expressions, probably seeing their past selves in the other's face. The moment is quiet, fit only for the two long lost friends, now separated by time and strangling emotions. He wants to say something, he can see she wants to as well but they continue to stare, unable to muster up the strength. It is all nearly too suffocating and too personal of a moment, something he feels he must hide away. Saber opens her mouth, exhaling, not yet speaking words but her lips forming them, breathlessly. He tilts forward slightly, chest tightening with anticipation.

Then the thud of a mug hitting the counter makes them both flinch. Lancer lifts his gaze to the ginger haired woman, eyebrows furrowed, cheeks flushed with color.

Amelie leans over the counter, "Who the hell is Lancer?"

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 _ **[Saber]**_

Sitting awkwardly in a booth, Saber wonders what she should say. He looks exactly the same, except that he wears civilian clothes and his lances are far from where they sit.

Swallowing what she can of the sugar cookie, spread out in small pieces on her napkin, she wonders what he is thinking.

Nothing good, most likely.

She's actually seen a bit about him recently. Fairly famous amongst small groups of girls, squawking at his picture in a magazine, nameless for all they know, but the teenage girls are often mesmerized by his expressions; dark and sultry, as if hiding secrets. Out of curiosity, she flipped through a magazine, only to find him in some obscure one, one she is sure is hardly well known, but regardless, she was fairly impressed with his photos. She hadn't expected she'd see him again, indirectly at least, from the pages of a glossy magazine.

Now, he sits just as nervously before her, hand clasped around his styrofoam coffee cup, eyes narrowed and eyebrows scrunched in concentration.

Maybe he doesn't want to speak with her. But then, he had been the one to direct them to a table.

 _It's been four years already..._

But also longer since the last Holy Grail War. So much has happened and he hardly knows. He doesn't know what her previous master commanded her to do. He doesn't know that she knew not about his death beforehand. She could never have known what Kiritsugu had planned the night of Caster's defeat.

Watching him, his face is replaced with the sudden memory of his bloodied eyes and mouth, of his pained and angered glare. Saber flinches and nearly jumps from her seat but she wills her feet to still and her heart to calm when Lancer turns his head.

"I—" they both exclaim and pausing suddenly, his eyes capture hers. He wants to say something and she has no idea what _to_ say. What could she ever possibly say to make up for the pain she caused him?

"You should speak first—" he starts and Saber quickly breaks off another piece of her cookie, chomping down aggressively into it. She's come here everyday at the same time and never has she seen him. Apparently, according to the shop owners boisterous wife, she and Lancer are often frequent customers, just missing each other. As one exits, the other trudges down the street, ready to enter. Usually they come at different times, Lancer, according to the wife, very early; while Saber comes towards the afternoon. It is strange to think they had been so close and yet never even seen or knew of the others presence. Saber believed she had been the only one to come to America but it seems Lancer had thought of the same idea.

The city is full of diversity, love and anger and so much emotion, it is no wonder both of them were drawn to such enormous passion.

Glancing away for a moment, she notices the owner of the shop cleaning the front counter, while his wife sits leaning over it, peering at them with wide and curious eyes. Saber flinches and quickly swivels her head back around towards Lancer. He seems to have noticed that they are being watched because he offers a gentle smile in the women's direction. Surprisingly, she doesn't completely swoon because she nods her head vigorously at him, as if it's encouragement.

"I'm sorry—" Saber blurts and, when he looks at her in surprise, she freezes, heart pounding and blood rushing up her cheeks, "Ah, about...I didn't mean to intrude on you. Here. If you don't want to see me—Well.." she's rambling now, crushing her cookie between her thumb and the table, "No, I am also sorry about—about..."

 _Say it! You sound like a fool!_

She swallows the words and frowns, finding the very sentence to be impossibly hard to say, the words lodged in her throat.

"Saber.."

His voice is softer than she expected, more calm and less angry. In fact, she assumed he would have been yelling at her by now, or tossing dishes and flipping tables. Maybe decades of sitting and waiting to be summoned has sent her mind into a manic frenzy of delusions. Because seeing him now, she would never imagine lancer flipping a table. Not as he watches her with that all knowing expression, a slight smirk.

Women must really fall for that look but it only unnerves her.

He chuckles with a soft exhale, "I'm glad this spell doesn't work on you still. It's a relief."

Blinking, she slides her eyes towards the small beauty mark. _Subject change...he changed..._

"I'm also glad that you haven't changed. Or you have...but in a good way."

"A...good way?" She cocks her head at him, attempting to decipher his calm expression, or what his intentions are.

He presses his cup to his lips and takes in a harsh sip, lips curling at the edges, as he watches her back; as if he knows that she is searching him, trying to decipher his words. And failing.

Shaking her head, she adds, in a hushed tone so the curious woman at the counter can't hear, "Aren't you angry with me? About...what happened?"

He seemed so when he faded from existence, scowling and renouncing her very existence. Now, he seems...content.

"Let's not talk about that," he leans a bit forward and Saber leans away in turn, "How are you?"

 _What? What is he aiming for?_

Glancing back at the woman and shop owner, she drums her fingers against the wooden table, "I don't—"

"Don't worry," Lancer laughs, "I just want to hear about the past four years."

Although a bit suspicious, it is easy to fall into the lull of his smile, daring and loud despite his soft and calm tone. His personality was always contagious however, fiery and having a tendency to be a bit childishly competitive. But far from stupid, no, Lancer would never be a person she regards as idiotic. So she falls into the complacency of the moment. It's much easier to do when she knows they will not have to go out and have an intense battle after. Unless, her heart pounds excitedly with the thought, he truly wanted to.

However, right now, she decides to focus on honesty.

"It's been...boring."

" _Boring_?"

"Well...I have...switched jobs a bit. I liked my previous one very much. The one I have now...is temporary."

"Let me guess," he smiles at her with amusement, slightly shaking his coffee cup to see if any more liquid sloshes against the sides, "You're a cop."

She nods, "How did you know?"

"I assumed your righteous and stubborn personality would find itself there. But...you said you are elsewhere now?"

She watches him carefully, searching his eyes.

"Something else...taking children away from troubled homes. Reprimanding the bad..?" She flushes as his eyes seem to soak in the information, nearly hungry for it.

Lancer flashes a bemused smile at her, "I'm impressed, I can imagine you working well with children. I'm sure you'd a be bit stiff in the beginning."

"It was exactly like that," she chuckles, "I was very unaccustomed to working with them, especially such troubled ones. They are far more mature than I expected though."

"I'm sure they are glad to have you."

She glances down at her hands, pulling at her shirt buttons, "And it doesn't require a sword—"

Lancer laughs. It is loud and a bit boisterous, unashamed and lacking much of the soft politeness he carried during the last Holy Grail War. His happiness makes her content although, that he no longer harbors the anger he died with. She trusted him during those days, even fighting Caster with him, despite them being enemies or supposedly. She trusts him now too, more than any other servant.

"I am...hunting someone..." her voice lowers again and Lancer's eyebrows furrow, lips pulling down into a deep grimace. She continues, "Caster. I followed him to America from England. Or he's followed me. Now, I am a social worker. For children...but it allows me to investigate families and make an easier schedule. As a police officer, It was easier to investigate but my schedule was far too hectic so—"

"Saber..." Lancer's grip tightens around his cup, "You are obsessed over him. When I am sure you have nothing to worry about."

"I-I do! You don't know, because you have lived your life, like everyone else. But Caster has killed. Missing children, missing families. It's the violence of this world that hides these murders."

He scoffs, "You need to live in the present, Saber. This is childish, already."

" _No._ " She knows that she should be polite, especially given their past, but she refuses to be belittled, " _You_ are all childish, attempting to live your lives like normal humans when we have a responsibility to—"

"I owe humans nothing," Lancer's glare makes her stiffen. His rage is palpable beneath his frown and Saber watches him, his snarl deep and heavy, "You push your ideals on us as if we care. But we do not. And look what happens to those who follow you. Death. Only that."

Hurt makes her chest sting and she clasps the edge of the table, "You have no right."

"No," he hisses back, "You have no _right_ to come here and intrude upon my life, my peace and freedom to demand I search for a servant who does not exist in this world any more. You're delusional."

"I. Am. Not," standing, Saber tosses the rest of her crumbled cookie into the trash, wrenching her bag over her shoulder, "You are all too deluded and selfish. I thought you would be different."

He follows her stride with his gaze, yelling over his shoulder, "I owe you nothing! May I remind who it was _you_ that betrayed me? Or does your half assed apology serve as your only redemption!?"

Saber pauses but doesn't turn. Staring at the front door, she contemplates whether she should turn back, whether she should take back what she said and reign in her anger. But then she's reminded that he merely wants to believe she is insane and let Caster run amok, and her anger boils.

"I have deep remorse for what happened that night, Lancer. If I could go back and save you, I would. But I cannot. Believe me if you so choose. But this is the last time you will see of me."

And she stomps out the door, never looking back at him and tightening her grip around the strap of her bag.

She'll do it all on her own. She's used to being alone anyways— _so be it._


	3. Chapter 3

[Short Chapter]

Chapter 3-To the bone

 **March 15th**

 **[Lancer]**

Rain makes his bones ache. Past the muscle and deep into the rigid white of his skeleton. It makes for a slow and irritating day of work, his expression stiff and often annoyed or shadowed with pain.

The cameras flash far too brightly and by the end of the day, he's suffering from a minor headache. Drinking from a small bottle of water, he pinches his fingers against the bridge of his nose, eyebrows furrowing.

"Are you okay Diarmuid?"

A small, shy and brown haired girl approaches him, her hands folded beneath a miniature white towel. Offering a smile, he turns to her, holding out his hand and taking the towel from her. He wipes his forehead and brows and then tosses it on his desk. Slipping his suit jacket off, he slings it over the back of his chair.

"Thanks Rose, but you can leave early today. I won't be too long."

She watches him with the same doe-eyed innocence, charmed by his face and beauty mark—staring at him as if she's finally experience love. But she's too young and she's only under a spell. Her eyes are like many others, desperate for him and for his attention.

Somehow, over the curve of her chin and cheekbones, her hair is suddenly blonde and her lips fine, eyes an emerald green. Her eyes are no longer soft but replaced with a hardiness—stubborn and a bit stoic. Strong.

Lancer blinks, stepping back from the girl, her appearance suddenly reverting back to her mousy self.

She leans forward, "A-Are you alright? You looked like you've seen a ghost."

He glances quickly at his reflection in the mirror and staring back is a disturbed, pale expression. He wipes his hand down his face, sighing, "I think I'll be going home now."

She steps forward, wide eyes searching for his attention once more and for love he certainly cannot offer, "Are you sure? You look a bit sick. S-Should I walk you home?"

She wants so much from him, he can see her innocent hope, how much she aches to be with him. Too bad that despite his apparent freedom, he still suffers from the same curse. It seems he cannot escape his past after all.

"No, that's alright."

Besides, even if he was to succumb, to allow himself a slight relationship with every women that fell under his spell, he refuses to be with anyone underage, anyone who will be wasting her time on him, experiencing a false love. He would never dare take advantage of a woman who wants a true relationship, because he knows he can not withstand being in one. His past is too dark and he can't forget what love has done to him, how torturous it could be. So he must reserve his pity as Rose glances down at the ground, terribly disappointed. As if her world has come crashing down and her heart has been shredded into pieces. But she'll get over it.

Perhaps it's time he hire a new assistant because he doesn't want a poor girl's life ruined because she believes she's in love; when in actuality she's merely under a spell. Even with his new found freedom, he's become more closed off, hiding himself and his past from prying eyes rather than immediately trust. He's learned from his past and the last Holy Grail War that no matter how much he admires and persists about chivalry—the world will not grant him such in return.

No, he's only ever gotten mistrust and deceit, anger.

Now he's lost on whether he should cling to those values, to his stubborn morals or simply delve into true human society.

Rose still stares at the ground with watery eyes. He doesn't offer a hug, he's afraid she'll think he's falling in love with her. And he doesn't plan to fall in love ever again.

The rain reminds him far too much of the past and he doesn't care to be out in public when he can be huddled in bed, succumbing to laziness. Except he promised himself he would train again today because he missed the day before, and he doesn't want to feel the sluggishness take over his body. He hasn't slept very well recently however and that hasn't helped much either. As he deliberates on what to do, he shields his eyes from the rain, squinting through the slight fog and mist. New York in the rain isn't pretty to him, in fact, it's quite grey. Most of the people who are walking down the street, do so out of necessity rather than looking for something to do.

He should have taken his car here but in the morning, when the sun was bright and sky clear, he thought it would be good to walk or take public transportation. Now he regrets having to walk with his throbbing knees, about fifteen blocks to his apartment building.

"Stop!"

He stops short on command, his senses spiking as a figure barrels past him, a grey hood pulled over the man's head. Watching the man sprint through an empty park, hitting the swings and staggering, he swiftly turns back around towards the other moving figures. Police officers, two, both men running in full sprint after the man.

Lancer leaps out the way and turning back around, he sees another smaller person jumping over the park fence, coming from another direction of the other police officers. Her blonde hair is covered in droplets of rain and her emerald eyes seem to glimmer seriously, but with an excitement he hadn't seen in a long time.

The pain in his body subsides as he's filled with adrenaline, a wonderful fire burning through him.

 _Chase_

He's running. Running towards her with long strides and deliberate steps, beating out the human cops and easily matching her pace. His jacket flies from his body, hitting the ground as the park flashes by him like a whirlwind of color.

"Who is he?"

Saber's head turns, but she doesn't seem to register that it is him, or that he is somehow here running beside her, because she only mutters, "Bad. Man."

In a huff, which he takes as evidence that she's been running for a long while after him, also why she probably hasn't caught him yet.

But he's not winded just yet, he's full of energy. So he pushes his legs, igniting the heat flaring through his muscles to burn hotter. He passes Saber and feeling the ache of his bones call out to him, a glimmering red lance forms from the air.

He flashes a grin, just as Saber shrieks, "Wait—!"

He swings, eyes flashing towards the man's feet.

 _Child's play..._

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Standing against the side of a Starbuck's, he watches as Saber politely excuses herself from her conversation, all smiles and stiff nods. It seems the cops she was with were her friends and the man they had been chasing, was a father she was working with, apparently, a bit of an abuser. It seemed the man had crossed a line, too many hospital visits with his children and too many suspicious absences from school. When it came down to it, he sprinted from his cramped apartment building, leaving the children he was hurting behind. The cruelty of humans doesn't surprise him but it never seems to ease his worries of the world he now lives in. There doesn't seem to be much good anymore except in small corners of the world.

Saber glances down at her phone, thumbs rapidly moving across the screen, a troubled expression clouding her once fiery glare.

He awaits her, wondering why, after their last encounter, that he wants to speak with her at all. Since the cafe, he's made sure to come even earlier than he used to, only to ensure he doesn't see her. Yet, he can't help but regret the way their last conversation had ended. He told himself that he wasn't angry with her but when she started talking about servants of the past and Caster—a battle he had experienced just mere hours away from his death—he was filled with anger.

"I need a day off," she breaths, and then realizing he is still waiting for her, she quickens her pace, nearly a jog. She huffs, eyes somewhat innocent and wide as she watches him, "I—Well, thank you. For the help."

"I'm sure you had it on your own," he attempts to be nonchalant but he's actually quite pleased to see her, "But I got a little bit too excited, I guess."

"Well," she adjusts her dark suit around her neck, a few wrinkles having appeared and the rain having practically glued it to her skin, "We haven't talked in some time."

He pushes himself off of the wall, arms still crossed, "About that, Saber. I think I should apologize—"

"You?"

They have a habit of interrupting each other, always wanting to say something, always some type of competition even when it doesn't feel like it should be one.

He sighs out contentedly, "I am...still angry. But sitting alone for a decade or so makes the anger fade."

She tilts her head, finally listening rather than talk over him, so he continues, "I want to forgive. But I need you to explain...what happened. Why it happened."

She frowns, "That will be a long story. And difficult." Glancing down at her phone, he can see her fingers strongly squeezing it in her hand, "I still have work and the children to attend to but—"

A car flashes by them, spraying them with a flood of water. They are already soaked to the bone but it still makes them both exclaim and then shiver. Saber has tucked her phone quickly against her body, water dripping from her eyelashes.

"But—" she breaths out, "Perhaps we can exchange numbers," she frowns, twisting the device in her hand, "I believe many humans do that, to keep in contact. Except so many men have given me their numbers and I have no idea what to do with it all."

His chest tightens. This might be the first women he has in his phone that he hasn't either slept with or who isn't charmed by his beauty mark. Not that she needs to know that and he realizes how that bit of information might come across if said aloud—he isn't some player but then again, he isn't as serious about love in this time period anymore— and regardless of all that, Saber herself isn't even accustomed to another man hitting on her. Much less why they exchanged numbers with her...

Chuckling at himself, he fishes his phone out of his pocket, slowly sliding his eyes over her face. She's really quite pretty he's noticed, or maybe she always was but he simply didn't notice over all the hectic drama.

"My number is—"

Her lips seem soft. Maybe being a bit of a player in this society is getting to him, because he can't help but imagine how she's fared in such a society as this, romantically speaking.

He wonders if she trains like him, if she still adorns her armor at times and secretly wields her sword as she did in the past.

He's only ever had respect for her, even more so after learning her identity. After they say their goodbyes, he slyly types in her contact name, deciding against Saber and adding, " _Arturia"_ instead.

It seems fitting. In this world, she is no longer Saber. Those were class titles, not their true names, and even during the war, even after learning each other's identities; using their true names seemed far too intimate for two people eager for battle.

Even muttering her name seemed indecent during those times but now he finds it fitting.

He watches as she sits in her car, shaking water of out her hair and clothes. He should be more honest to himself, he'd like to see her in something more feminine. Even when they met in January, she had been wearing a man's button up shirt with long black pants.

It seems she is still unaccustomed to her femininity and he imagines she is far more comfortable dressing as a man than a woman, and it not that he necessarily believes she should dress more feminine—it is that he is infinitely curious of how she would look. With perhaps, her hair down, her body shaped in a dress.

He blinks as her car moves off down the street.

 _I must be going crazy...This is saber. The servant of the master that forced you to commit suicide._

Then again, it's Saber. Saber who enjoyed the glory and honor of battle as much as he. Saber who seemed too shocked during his death, too unaware.

Rubbing a hand down his face, he sighs, "I need more sleep."


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4- Memorable

 **[Saber]**

What she cannot comprehend is how easily the other servants go on living normal lives. They feel no disturbance, no heavy force on their shoulders, no suspicion over what occurred. So she is alone in this endeavor.

 _It's the dreams.._

And the wall she can't push past in her own mind. As if there is something behind it that she should see. Or _someone_ she is forgetting.

In her dreams, she sees the flash and heat of battle, heart wrenching deaths and a face of a man she feels she should recognize and yet doesn't.

Her mind and body tell her that she has experienced these all, that these dreams are _memories._ But then the wall comes down and she can't place what she had seen or what it could have all meant.

But she is sure that she has forgotten something. Or someone is making her forget it all.

Or perhaps she's only paranoid.

Except, if her dreams are memories, then why do they mirror the image of another Holy Grail War, why does she see new servants and a boy with orange-red hair.

And sorrow.

But happiness, she feels that there was pain and anguish...but also...contentment.

And why, if she had experienced another Holy Grail War, did the servants of that one not return as well?

Saber inhales, a sense of panic suddenly overwhelming her, her head swiveling around as if a pair of eyes are watching her.

The fog comes over her before she can attempt to fight it. For a few moments, she is deciphering her thoughts and the next, she can't recall what she had just been thinking or why she feels so disturbed; standing lost on the sidewalk.

Blinking, Saber tightens her grip around her brown satchel, shaking away the sudden mist that seemed to have overcome her mind.

Without another thought, she is walking towards her destination again. Glancing down at her watch, she shifts her shoulders back, stiffening her back so she is striding as straight-backed as she can. It is a peaceful Sunday afternoon and she takes most of her free time to either go through some of her left over work, follow through on any Caster leads or walk through the city.

In the morning, she already started with a brisk jog through the park closest to her apartment which was about twenty blocks of a fairly easy workout. She hasn't held her saber in some time however, about three days, which doesn't seem too long but to her, it is already a lifetime. The human world can be so hectic, and she cannot comprehend how the other servants have so easily integrated into society.

Without being suspicious as to why—

She stops walking, head falling backwards so that her eyes are suddenly staring at the blue sky. These thoughts seem to circle through her mind like an intense sense of deja vu.

But a voice in the back of her head whispers harshly: _No. You are happy here. This is where you belong._

She wipes at her eyes and then her head falls forward, her feet seem to rush towards or through the ground for a certain moment. Everything is wobbly and then Saber is reaching for the strap of her satchel again, digging her fingers into the material; the fog clearing a bit.

"Um—", groggily, she rummages through her satchel and grabs a packet of tissues. Without another thought, she wipes at her eyes and then her nose, as if her sudden tiredness is merely allergies; regardless of the fact that she has never suffered from anything remotely close to such.

Then she is walking again, her thoughts flowing like the flick of a flame bursting from a lighter.

 _I think I'm running late..._

Glancing at her phone, the digital clock reads, _2:00,_ making her quicken her steps, weaving through tight pacts of people, slipping past tourists and boisterous guides. All she has to do is avert her gaze or fix it on the sidewalk right before her and she is left alone, seamlessly moving through crowds of civilians. It is uncommon for her to spend more than an hour of her time not working but she supposed today is a special occasion. She wears a woman's blazer, navy blue, on top of a buttoned white shirt, folded to her elbows and the same color trousers, fitted for woman as well. On her feet, are perhaps the most uncomfortable shoes she's ever worn—and she's never worn heels—but these _flats_ are so close to the ground. She can feel each indent in the sidewalk and each vibration rushing up her shin bone. The awkward sensation disappears the more she walks but it makes her truly admire women who so easily wear shoes with pointed heels taller than anything she's ever seen possible.

Her hair is, of course, tied into a neat ponytail, swaying with each step. No makeup, because she hardly knows what it is or even how to put it on.

She supposes she should get more casual clothes but she quite likes dressing professionally, preferring it over a skirt and tight dress. Her armor doesn't really count as a dress, it is far too easy to run and fight in to be something uncomfortable. Plus the dresses these days are amazingly short. In her time period, that would be seen as quite scandalous.

She pauses by a small bookstore, something that is tucked between two other stores, fairly obscure. But it smells warm and kind and if kindness ever did have a smell, it would be the scent wafting from the tiny book store before her.

She aches to stop and indulge in some light reading, having already acquired the interest over the four years she's been here; lost in biographies of women and men she had never had the chance of knowing. Or stories of outrageous adventures and trials of courage.

Nibbling her bottom lip, she contemplates the consequences of stopping. Knowing herself, she'd linger far too long or lose track of time. She's had such a luxury ever since being in the human world—to be able to forget what time of day it is or become so lost in a store, that she is unaware of her surroundings.

 _But not this time—_

She's already a bit late to her "meeting" and she hates to be seen as rude, especially when she is meeting _him,_ of all people.

Lancer had messaged her on the terribly distracting rectangular phones, asking her in a rather polite and quiet tone if she would meet him at the cafe again. To which she relented only because she knows she owes him answers of what she remembers.

 _I know I'm forgetting something_ —

She continues to watch the bookstore, eyes locked on the two small bells attached to the top. Her thoughts have come to a sudden halt and she is thinking about nothing except about the way the light hits those two bells.

Then her phone vibrates in her hand and she is looking down, for a moment, absentmindedly, having forgotten where she was.

 _Lancer..._

 _Lancer?_

Right. She was meeting him. She reaches up to pinch the bridge of her nose, a startling sharp pain banging through the back of her head. She grunts but keeps walking nonetheless.

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She is nervous for a moment but then she steals a bit of courage and strength from her stubborn personality and walks into the cafe, pushing the door with as much confidence she could muster.

The cafe is much more crowded during this time of day and she underestimated the movement of the people, getting caught between a heavier man and slender woman. She grabs the flap of her satchel instinctively as she migrates through the long line, feeling the brush of skin on her cheek and small shoves from behind as she pops out from the crowd.

Exhaling, she reaches up and brushes her fingers through her neatly done hair, making sure no hair stands too out of place besides the two strands she can never keep down; sticking right up from her head.

Glancing around the half of her room, she searches for the familiar hazel eyes and dark, raven hair; slight curl pulled over his forehead. For a moment, she nearly begins to search for a bright red lance but she must remind herself that they are blending normally into the world. To hold such a dangerous weapon in here would only cause mass chaos and confusion.

At the counter, she notices the shop owner and his curious wife, her mouth open, most likely speaking loudly in her heavy accent. But they haven't noticed Saber so she dips her head and continues to the back of the room, past an arching doorway; covered with a transparent purple curtain. Purple lights splash across the floor as she pushes it aside, letting it sweep closed as she steps through.

Small circular tables, about ten, sit around a room, one with an open window and veranda towards the street. It isn't a particularly pretty view but at least it is decorated with flower pots and bright colors, making the dark and littered street seem less dirty. Saber cranes her neck towards the entrance behind her and then searches the room hurriedly for any other noticeable exits. She spots two and then she feels much safer after surveilling the area.

A wave of familiar power overwhelms her senses and she blinks, twisting to look at the flow of energy, like an invitation she can recall taking once before.

Sure enough, sitting in casual clothing—a green t-shirt tucked halfway into black jeans adorned with polished brown dress shoes— is Lancer, his legs splayed outward and arms slung over the seat beside him. He carries himself with the same confidence he always has, with a sly, knowing smirk and catty eyes.

She sucks in a deep breath, crossing the room towards him where he has situated himself in the far corner, closest to one of the exits she's spotted. The breeze of the cars passing by makes her blazer slightly float open and hair fly across her lips in small strands of blonde.

She grabs one of the chairs and quickly sits, folding her satchel across her lap, already searching his eyes for a hint of emotion other then his usual flirtatious gaze. But if he has any anger or nervousness, he hides it well.

He leans forward, folding his hands together and she imagines this is why he's already succeeding so well in the world, because he easily flashes a chivalrous smile with a slight raise of his eyebrows and even a bit of a slight narrow of the eye that the beauty mark sits under. So he's decided to use his charm spell? Or perhaps he simply can't help using it.

"If you are trying to seduce me, may I remind you that it does not work." She shakes her head at him, placing her phone down on the table, even giving a click of her tongue. He can be quite childish can't he?

Looking up, she is startled to suddenly see a different face. A man she is sure she must have known, a man who posed a bit of danger towards her at some point. A man with a strong jaw and blue hair, wearing a lancer's armor but in royal blue, his hand wrapped around a red lance and his body leaning nonchalantly against the table. Saber nearly jumps out of her chair but she only manages to scoot an inch back, making the legs of the chair screech in resistance.

"I—Who.."

The Lancer she knows returns, like an apparition disappearing before her very eyes or a flash of a memory. She blinks for a few minutes, shaking the thought away from her mind, feeling the tug of that fog threatening to wash over her.

"Are you alright?" Lancer inquires, still sitting as he was, leaned forward, hands held and eyebrows now furrowed.

Saber touches her phone, straightening it before her on the table, "Yes. Yes, I am fine."

And when she looks up to see him appearing severely unconvinced, she debates on whether she should tell him what she just saw. Then again, the last time she brought up anything remotely crazy or even talked about her suspicions of this whole dilemma, he became irritated. So who is she to say he wouldn't see her insane now when she admits to seeing "ghosts".

"I haven't slept," she lies, hoping that the sluggishness she has avoided for the whole week will suddenly seem extremely apparent.

He accepts this as truth, even perhaps understands it himself, because he flashes that smile again, "I'm glad to know the spell doesn't work on you still. It would be a shame if it did."

She's glad for the easy distraction and the sudden shift. She'd much rather speak light heartedly than admit she sees another man's face on top of his own.

"I'm afraid it will never work on me. You can stop trying now, if that will spare your pride."

He winks at her and she is unfazed, staring at him unblinkingly, not in the slightest amused that he thinks her a frivolous girl. Lancer shrugs, "I was only joking. I know you'd never succumb to such a spell."

Again, she touches her phone, perhaps a nervous habit or perhaps she hates not knowing the specific time every minute that passes, "Good to know."

They are interrupted when a young woman strides towards them, a girl Saber recognizes immediately as the shop owners wife. Saber clicks her tongue and casts an annoyed glance towards the street to her left.

She doesn't have to hide her dislike for the loud woman, who cocks her head at the two of them as if they are a pair of animals behind a set of metal bars.

Lancer's smile doesn't fade, "Afternoon Amelie. I see it's busy today."

Amelie, holding a paper pad and pen, suddenly skirts close to their table, her perfume heavy, "I really have no clue where these people came from. I'm pretty sure you're famous now because half of them snuck back here just to take a goddamn picture of you—"

Lancer flashes a knowing look towards Saber and she assumes this is his joking manner of attempting to impress her. A failed attempt it turns out to be.

Turning back to Amelie, he taps his menu, "My normal order, please."

Amelie doesn't have to look down at what he is pointing at and she doesn't bother scribbling anything down. But then she turns to Saber and Saber can see the hungry curiosity boiling in her irises.

Saber holds in a disapproving sigh and glances down, sliding her fingers down to the end of the page, "I'd like the oatmeal please. With some raisins and cinnamon."

"Perfect." Amelie scribbles her order down and then shoves the pencil in to her apron pocket. Saber assumes she is going to leave soon, if only to giver Lancer and her some privacy, but Amelie doesn't move. She pulls out a chair and sits right down, Lancer's bemused smile turning wider while Saber's frown turns into a tight grimace.

"Will you two mind telling me where you met? I sense some history..."

She's hungry for gossip, her eyes wide with desperation.

Lancer flashes his eyes towards Saber. She shakes her head subtly but Amelie, like any human with average eye sight, notices.

Lancer drums his fingers along the table, "A long time ago. We helped fight off some..." he taps his chin, "A..." he glances at Saber, a plea of help and she flinches.

"Abuser—b-bully! Yes," she sees Lancer nodding, his eyebrows furrowed and lips a bit pursed, "In school."

Amelie's eyes are hungry for more, "Really? What school? What grade?"

Saber watches her. She hardly knows of any schools around here, much less of how to fabricate such a story to satiate the woman's never ending curiosity. It is Lancer's turn to save them, because he interjects, "Sorry Amelie. We're pressed for time today and we have a lot of catching up to do. Do you mind if we have a bit of privacy?"

His smile is warm but Saber can tell by his fingertips thumping repeatedly against the table that he's become increasingly impatient.

Amelie snaps her head towards him, staring at Lancer. Perhaps a message seems to flare between them, because she sighs and gives in, leaving the table.

Lancer looks to Saber with a smug expression, his smile seeming to await praise. She scoffs, "I am not very impressed if that's what you want me to say."

"In due time, Saber."

His gaze is fiery and she realizes how much more flirtatious he has allowed himself to become. Even to her, someone he must know would hardly ever fall for it, he keeps incessantly winking, smirking and using that charm spell. At least it makes the situation less tense.

"Shall we begin?"

He chuckles, a light filling his eyes as the corner of his eyes crinkle and his hand reaches up to rub his chin, "You are still so polite and formal. I hope that isn't how you start all your conversations."

Her eyes widen and a flush of color touches her cheeks, only serving to make Lancer laugh louder, "Of course you do, you really never change."

"I see no reason to—besides you called me here for a reason, right?" She places her hands over her satchel on her lap, "You want closure."

Lancer sits back, hand running through his hair, a sigh of exasperation escaping him, "I don't know what I want Saber. I want the truth. You owe that to me at least."

"I–I have never lied to you. That night, I had no idea that Shirou would do that—" a sharp pain stabs through her chest and she nearly doubles over, grabbing her shirt in a clenched fist.

 _Shirou...?_

"Are you alright? You look sick.."

Lancer's voice sounds far away. Saber grabs at the table, as if to hold on, a bit of sweat forming on her upper brow and lip. She sucks in a deep breath and for a moment, a face is coming into view. She's seeing a face that's startling familiar. And then the pain becomes so strong that it fades away with the wind. A car passes by them and she blinks, willing the pain away and the name and memory suddenly and quickly disappearing.

She stares at her lap for a moment, searching the ground, scanning what she can make out before her.

"I—" she shakes out her head, and with a harsh chuckle, looking back up, says, "Maybe I ate something bad yesterday."

"Who is Shirou?" Lancer's furrowed eyebrows and tight lipped grimace is heavy, his eyes watching her with a sense of worry and confusion.

Saber's gaze floats away from his face and towards the open space above his shoulder. Her body feels relaxed and she can't quite focus on what he just said, her lips move but they feel numb, "I misspoke...Kiritsugu Emiya was my master during the last war...he was, he forced your master to—" which each reassurance in the memory that she _knows,_ her mind feels less cloudy and her lips start to feel like her own, until she's talking and she has no memory of what just occurred, nor of why it happened, "I hadn't known that he was capable of doing something so dishonorable. And he only worsened, he made me destroy the—"

"Here we go—"

Amelie appears like a ghost, balancing plates on her arm. Saber can only imagine that the woman had snuck up on them on purpose, if only to hear bits of their conversation. Still, it's enough to surprise both past servants.

Saber hadn't realized that she had leaned in and Lancer as well, his expression serious, listening with an intent to understand. Quickly, they shift backward and Saber slides her hands over her satchel, clinging to it as Amelie hands their orders down towards the table.

"Careful, it's hot."

She lingers for a moment as Saber watches the ground and Lancer smiles at Amelie.

Then Amelie scoffs and spins around, walking back inside the cafe. Saber folds her hands together, suddenly having lost her appetite or perhaps she never had it in the first place, this meeting having given her many sleepless nights.

She breaths out, "The story isn't as complex as you think. He would do anything to get what he wanted and in the end—in the end—"

Lancer takes notices of her pain, her anger. His death was only a realization that Kiritsugu would never be a man Saber respected. Nor did their philosophies truly see eye to eye. Forcing her to destroy the Grail, as she screamed in anguish, pleading for him to stop would be a memory she'd never forget.

 _Forget..._

She rubs her temples and shuts her eyes, taking a shaky breath, "I—"

"We can circle back to it," Lancer whispers and Saber watches him curiously, his eyes speaking volumes of his kindness and generosity, "I see now that it is hard for you."

She shakes her head, "No. We must speak about this, I...apologize, Lancer. I regret so much of what happened."

He's taken aback by her sudden emotion, his eyes widening for a moment and then he looks down to his order—Toast with eggs and bacon with coffee in a blue mug—, "I blamed you for a long time. I had trusted you and when that happened, I found it to be a big betrayal. But I believe you, I believe you didn't know."

"If I had defeated you, It would have been in battle, not like that."

"The selfishness of humans never amazes me." He pushes at his eggs nonchalantly, lips pursed in a pensive frown, "It seems I will always be cursed to die by the hands of ones I trusted," looking up, he adds, "Or, in our case, to think I did."

"No. You are right to be angry at me. If I had known—"

"Saber," he watches her with a saddened gaze, one made of resolution, as if he's already settled on what could have happened that night, decades ago, "You were still loyal to your master, you were honorable. Even if you had disagreed, you would have been made to obey, or even persuaded. You push so much of yourself away, in pursuit of loyalty."

Her cheeks redden, "I don't see that as a bad thing. But...I would have—I would have stopped him."

Lancer chuckles, "I can understand, I would have pleaded with my master as well did he have such a plan. But in the end, we were merely servants."

He looks down again, at his food, deciding to eat rather than play with it. Contentedly but with sorrow in his eyes, he eats slowly, attempting to avoid her gaze, or perhaps the conversation.

Saber looks down at her oatmeal, stomach in tight knots, "I...will never forgive Kiritsugu. I have no idea if he lived, or what he did—"

"I suppose all masters are horrible people. That must be trust because why would anyone wish so desperately for the Grail if they did not live a life of regret or selfish wishes."

"No. There are good masters too."

Lancer scoffs, chewing at his food savagely, as if starved, "How could you know?"

"Because—"

 _Shirou...Emiya...Rin..Tohsaka..._

She gasps, head whipping to the side as the pain returns with a sharpness she can't possibly describe. She groans and clutches her head, eyes wide and back hunched over. The oatmeal has fallen from the table, splattered in a mix of slush and porcelain.

Lancer's hand on her back makes her flinch and she slaps it away, jumping up from her seat as her head pounds. She looks out towards the street and there, like an apparition, she sees a large figure and another standing beside him.

Her memory begins to fade but the man standing there, his slender arm lifted up towards her, is far too familiar to forget.

Saber grinds her teeth, tears forming in the corners of her eyes as she notices that the man standing beside Caster has his hand up in a fist, a shimmering bluish-purple light.

 _Mage!_

She screams out in pain and falls to her knees and Lancer is immediately beside her, calling her name.

She points, "Caster!"

Lancer's head whips towards the street and he is frozen, his hands on her back stilling.

"He's...here..."

 _Shirou...Rin...Archer...Gil—Gilgamesh?—_

There had been another war. She knows this, she had lived that truth. She had left peacefully, fulfilled her goals—happily. Gilgamesh had been killed hadn't he? Hadn't Shirou managed to do it? Her heart pounds as flashes of memories are pulled painfully from her mind. That is a feeling she has felt before but when?

 _When? And who?_

She wants to remember, she doesn't want those memories to be taken away again. Her hand grabs Lancer's, "Something is wrong—I—remember..."

Lancer watches her with disturbed confusion, his eyes following each of her words.

She blinks, her head moving on its own towards the figures, her eyes meeting the glowing hand of the smaller man. The mage.

The fog takes over but it's stronger this time. She feels something being pulled from her, strings of images flashing before her eyes and disappearing into the corners of her mind, fading one by one of a War she should remember, of a whole lifetime.

And then a car flies by down the street and the figures are gone. She sees nothing anymore, she can recall nothing. Her mind is empty.

"I can't believe...he is here." Lancer speaks harshly and he helps Saber up to her feet, "What is it? What happened to you? What were you trying to say?"

"Happened—" she mumbles, still unable to regain her balance. Her head nearly falls back and for a split moment, she cannot place Lancer's face or true name or her past with him, "Who—?"

"Saber?"

She blinks the fog away, head slightly throbbing. Her eyes fall towards the broken bowl and she shakes her head, "Oh. I broke it."

She pulls away from Lancer and kneels before the shards of porcelain, piling them in her hand. Lancer grabs her wrist, peering into her eyes, "Saber, you seem ill."

"No." She breaths, shaking her head, "I think I—I just need to stop Caster. That's what I need to do. This happens...once a month, I think. But I am fine. Fine."

Yes, looking at him now, she remembers the last Holy Grail War. Lancer's death, Kiritsugu and that's all. That is her past, nothing more and nothing less, "I'm sorry if I worried you."

He opens his mouth and then the curtain covering the doorway flaps open. Amelie and the shop owner come rushing forward, their eyes immediately taking up the scene, however unable to ever know what had truly occurred.

"Oh no," Amelie sighs, "That was my favorite bowl."

Lancer swallows his words, "We're sorry, it just happened by accident."

Saber nods weakly, "I will pay for it."

The shop owner waves his hands, "No, no. It's okay."

A smack to the back of his neck makes him flinch and Amelie hisses, "This isn't the first time she's broken something, Justin! Of course she has to pay!"

Lancer chuckles but his gaze lingers on Saber, far too serious and pensive. She places the broken pieces she was able to find down on a napkin on the table, rising to her feet.

"I truly am sorry."

Amelie frowns heavily, "You must not be good at physical activity, you are really clumsy."

This time, Lancer's laugh is true, his hand reaching up to cover his lips but failing as his bubbly chuckles escape him. He adds, to Amelie's confused expression, "You'd be surprised what she could do."


End file.
